


Not Quite a Five-Star Getaway (The Church of Mad Love Remix)

by fitz_y



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitz_y/pseuds/fitz_y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everything is the fault of one Pendragon or another, Morgause has feelings, Morgana’s still a bit insecure, and Nimueh spends too much time reading tarot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite a Five-Star Getaway (The Church of Mad Love Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Like a Hole in the Head](https://archiveofourown.org/works/95457) by [Netgirl_y2k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/pseuds/Netgirl_y2k). 



> This probably won't make a lot of sense without reading Netgirl_y2k's amazing and hilarious original work first. Thanks to H for the late-night beta. All remaining mistakes are very much my own.

Twenty-four hours after initiating the most important romantic relationship in her life—the one she had been agonizing over for the past three years—Morgause managed to bollocks it up.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t her own doing, really. The blame lay 100% with her boss and nemesis, Uther Pendragon, and the pigheaded prat he had spawned. 

She had not been prying, spying or being generally creepy, despite what the boy and his friends had said. The laptop had been sitting out on the kitchen counter amidst a rather impressive collection of empty vodka bottles. He was the one who had left it in what clearly counted as a common space. And really what idiot password protected his laptop with _Arthur_da_bomb_? Clearly one who wanted to invite people with a deep psychological understanding of juvenile egoism to borrow his computer. Nor could her comments have been construed as blackmail or some sort of veiled threat, as Morgana’s flatmates seemed determined to believe. She had simply inquired, after Arthur had walked in to the room and yelped at the sight of her bent over his laptop, if his father knew about his homosexuality, failing economics grades, and applications for summer theatre internships with the Scottish Arts Council.

“I’ll get us a hotel.” She reached over the hard plastic seat between them and squeezed Morgana’s clammy hand. 

Morgana responded with an indecipherable murmur and watched the narrow streets grey with rain through the bus window.

“I just wish Gwen hadn’t taken Arthur’s and Merlin’s side,” Morgana mumbled. “And that I hadn’t said those things to them,” she added even more softly.

“Some place really posh.”

No response.

“With room service and maybe even an in-room hot tub.” Goddess knows, they needed to escape the icy rain that had pelted down on them for the excruciating hour they had spent waiting for a bus. Edinburgh this weekend made London look positively sunny.

***

When Morgause was fifteen, Morgana, a curious, fragile-looking ten-year old, had come to live with them. Tall and thin, with porcelain skin, brown almost-black hair, and round melancholy eyes, she seemed a fey creature spirited away from her own realm. For the first month in their house, she had mostly huddled in the corner gazing out the window with a faraway look. She hadn’t spoken a single word to Morgause. Whenever Morgause had asked her something, she just stared unblinkingly at her with those forest-green eyes.

“Do you think she’s touched in the head?” she asked her mother once after Morgana slipped off to bed.

“No. Give her time,” Nimueh murmured as she washed the late-night cocoa pot. “It takes a long time to recover from The Tower. And the Three of Swords is still hanging over her life.”

“Does she speak to you?”

“One doesn’t need words to speak, my dear.”

Morgause returned to her copy of Machiavelli’s _The Prince_ and did not give it any further thought.

Then spring came and breathed life into Morgana. She threw herself into the outdoors, coming home with wide grins, scraped knees, and bits of leaves and pollen in her hair. Morgause kept waiting for the day Morgana would decide to return to her fairy people and leave this world all together. She found she disliked the idea; she was getting used to the quiet girl with big eyes.

Finally, one day, when the air was heavy with summer, Morgana approached Morgause where she was sunbathing on their narrow balcony and dozing over her dual-language copy of _Thus spoke Zarathustra_. As Morgause opened her eyes and shielded them from the hot sun, Morgana crouched down and sat cross-legged by Morgause’s head. 

“I heard you tell Nimueh you have a plan for world domination,” she whispered, her voice raspy.

Morgause eyed her steadily and nodded. “It’s not fully fleshed out yet, but I’m working on the plan; it has fourteen stages.”

“Doesn’t every leader need a right-hand man? Can I help you?”

Morgause reached out and chucked her under the chin. “You might be just the one for the job. In fact, I’ve been hoping you would ask. You can use your psychic powers to aid me.”

Morgana was quiet for a long moment, staring at the concrete. “I have psychic powers?”

“Doesn’t every fairy child? We just have to figure out what they are. I suggest we make a spreadsheet and start our observations right now. We’ll have to be very astute in order to detect what your secret powers are.”

It turned out they did not need the spreadsheet. That night, Morgana slipped into Morgause’s bed for the first time and wound her frozen feet around Morgause’s legs. She couldn’t sleep, she said. The nightmares were keeping her up. 

“Well of course they are,” Morgause replied, “they’re your secret superpower.”

***

“I didn’t even know his last name. How could I not have known Arthur’s last name?” Morgana muttered as the bus grunted and drove away behind them with a splash. “But you knew it?” she said, and the lurking bitterness there made Morgause wince.

“I didn’t know it beforehand,” Morgause said as gently as she could given how her teeth had started chattering. “I found it out while you were in the shower. If I’d known you were living with a Pendragon, I would have started giving you recipes for poison the first day you moved in.”

***

At fourteen, Morgana had always found ways to crowd into Morgause’s space. If Morgause was sitting on a chair, Morgana perched on the arm, knobby elbow resting against Morgause’s shoulder. Or she curled up at Morgause’s feet, back against her legs, head pressed into her knee. Like a colt, she was all skinny legs and nervous energy, and she shimmied close whenever Morgause entered the room, knocking against her, reading over her shoulder, brushing fingers against her skin or through her hair.

“She’s in love with you,” Nimueh had informed her in an airy sing-song one day. “And if you don’t take action, the Queen of Pentacles is going to sweep her off her feet and you will never have a chance again.”

“She’s fourteen, Mother. Last time I checked that was illegal in this country.”

“It’s not illegal if it’s what the Goddess wants. You’re Morgana’s Queen of Wands.”

“Tell that to a judge.”

Nimueh scoffed. The law had never concerned her much. 

“It’s just a childhood hero crush. She’ll grow out of it.” And Morgause wondered why there was a taste of regret on her tongue as she spoke. She wondered if it was inappropriate or immature for a first-year uni student to have a fourteen-year old best friend. But none of her friends at uni were half as much fun as Morgana. They didn’t like to ask Morgause to read Ayn Rand to them, or want to stay up until 3 a.m. with her watching _The Prisoner_ reruns. They didn’t paint elaborate watercolors of them as queens reigning over the fairy realm together, or bake her favourite cinnamon scones whenever she broke up with yet another boyfriend. They didn’t insist that the best way to earn summer money was as pool sharks preying on unsuspecting lorry drivers.

***

The hotel room smelled of stale cigarettes, the yellow duvet sported a questionable stain, and the harsh fluorescent lighting surely only made her complexion attractive if one preferred their women corspe-chic.

“I can’t believe this is the only room available in the downtown. Who knew that the Edinburgh International Science Festival was such a hit with the tourists?” Morgause muttered as she retrieved a towel from the en suite and did her best to squeeze the rain out of her hair.

Morgana stood by the window, back ramrod straight as she fiddled with the frayed lace curtains that had probably been a pure white in another lifetime. 

Giving up her hair as a lost cause, Morgause plopped down on the questionable duvet and flipped on the TV.

“Why did you come to Edinburgh, Morgause? Because you always joke about finding Uther’s Achilles heel, and is that what this is all about? You came here to track down his son?”

***

At seventeen, Vivian had broken Morgana’s heart by leaving her after three weeks for Percival, the school’s rugby captain, whose arms were beefier than any eighteen-year old should be allowed to possess.

When Morgana came home from school that Friday, Morgause took one look at her and whisked her off to the pub. She bought her a tequila shot every time her eyes crinkled up, promised to research ways to turn Vivian into a newt, and reminded Morgana that once Morgause achieved world domination, as her second-in-command, Morgana would have no time for dating girls anyway, so she had best forget the endeavor completely. Later, she held Morgana’s long hair when she vomited out the tequila, and let Morgana share her bed for the first time in four years. 

She woke up to soft exhales against her neck, and a thin arm clutching at her stomach. Twisting in Morgana’s embrace so she could examine her face—calm and unbelievably young—in the watery morning light, Morgause admitted she was well and truly fucked. Somewhere between watching Morgana’s tongue dart out and lick salt from her hand in the warm darkness of the pub, to feeling her pressed up against her side as they had stumbled home while Morgana belted drinking songs about sailors and wenches, something had happened. 

Morgause wanted to reach out and run her fingertips over the thin, dark lines of Morgana’s eyebrows, press her lips against the sharp edge of her cheekbone. She would explore the texture and contours of Morgana’s ear lobe and bite at the faint pulse in her neck, listening to the surprised sounds she would make as she awoke. She wanted to roll on top of her, trap her against the mattress, and map the sensitivity of her skin, run the backs of her knuckles over Morgana’s trembling stomach, tight nipples, and inner thighs, unlock her secrets and then use those to push and push until Morgana was breathless, sweaty, and exhausted under her. Until Morgana was hers.

“You got lucky,” Nimueh informed her as she handed her a mug of tea when she stumbled downstairs after innocently extricating herself from Morgana’s sleeping embrace. “The Queen of Pentacles is out of the way for now. In the future, it’s the Page of Pentacles who will be teaming up with the Page of Cups and slowly drawing Morgana away from you. This is not insurmountable, but you need to act quickly.”

“She’s seventeen!”

“No longer illegal by those silly standards you insist on abiding by.” Nimueh’s smug voice dripped with disdain.

“Mother,” Morgause ran her hands through her own tangled bedhead. It was too early for this. “Can we just talk about this seriously for one minute, without you resorting to new-age speak?” Nimueh huffed at Morgause’s question, but managed to refrain from launching into her I-am-not-new-age-I-practice-a-religion-that-is-older-than-the-Church-of-England-thank-you-very-much rant “I’m a full five years older than her. She thinks about me as a sister, I just . . .”

“Can we talk about this without you throwing up specious arguments?” Nimueh arched an eyebrow and sipped her tea. “What does it matter that she’s five years younger, her attraction to you has always existed on a plane higher than most seventeen-year olds ever hope to inhabit.”

“But . . . she needs to go out there and do things, things I can’t give her, seventeen-year-old things. I can’t . . . I can’t do this lightly.”

“What makes you think she can?”

Morgause waved her off. “And then what happens when it doesn’t work out? What is Christmas going to look like if her adopted mother’s daughter also happens to be her ex-girlfriend?”

“Then don’t become her ex.”

Morgause slammed her mug onto the table and crossed her arms in front of her chest, staring her mother down. “Now you’re being purposefully obtuse. We’re all she’s got, and I don’t want to ruin that for her!”

For a long moment, Nimueh was quiet. “Maybe you already are ruining it for her by refusing to see what’s in front of your face. She’s old enough to know what she wants.”

The following Friday night Morgause let Pellinore take her home and ignored Morgana’s snide, then increasingly frantic texts all weekend. Even though she still lived at home, she was an uni student, and if she wanted to behave like one and stay out all weekend having sex with casual acquaintances from her political science seminar, that was her prerogative.

***

She crowded against Morgana, cupping her cheek, chasing her finger after drips of water trickling over her chilled skin.

“No, I meant what I said; I came for you. I knew that Uther’s son went to uni here, I just didn’t know he was the same Arthur as the one you live with.”

Morgana turned away. “But all you ever talk about is taking down Uther and I know you’re joking, or maybe you’re only sort of joking, and that’s okay, too, because either way I find it sexy and funny, but . . . I’m not defending Arthur here . . . I don’t even care about him. And if my flatmates really kicked me out, then that’s fine. I don’t need them, I guess. You matter more, I just don’t know if I’m really what you want. . .” She trailed off.

“You honestly think I came all this way just to spy on Arthur Pendragon for good blackmail material?”

“Well, you did pay your friend Forridel,” Morgana spat the name out like a curse, “to follow Uther to Russia for two weeks, because you thought he was involved in shady backroom arms dealings there and that if she found evidence, it would make for good blackmail.”

“So I did. But that was also to get her to stop hitting on me for five minutes.”

“Oh?” Morgana brightened fractionally at that. “Did it work?”

“Not really. Now she keeps asking me to help her get transferred to my office so she can keep a better eye on him.”

“Hmm.” Morgana’s shoulders slumped and she turned back to the rain-streaked window, pulled back the curtain to stare down at the dark city.

This would not do. Morgause rose from the bed, snaked her arms around Morgana’s waist, and tugged her against her chest—a reverse of the position that Morgause had woken up to that morning two years ago. Leaning forward, she dug her chin into Morgana’s bony shoulder and stared at their reflection in the dark pane, the eyes in Morgana’s wide, pale face not meeting her gaze.

“Morgana, I’ve been waiting for you for years,” she said gently. “And I had to watch you moon over Elena. I had to witness you chasing frantically after Vivian, and then, after all that, I had to watch that vapid girl break your heart, and it killed me. But you were seventeen, five years younger than me, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“So you ran off to Pellinore the next weekend, and before that there was Ewain, and Lady Helen. Oh, and let’s not forget what happened your last year at uni, that experiment with trinogomy, the second relationship you started with Lady Helen, but this time with her cousin Prince Cenred thrown in the mix as well. I lost track after that,” Morgana whispered without turning around.

“Because you terrify me, so I decided to run away from you.”

Morgana’s hands drifted down to where Morgause’s were locked together, over the fast inhales and exhales of Morgana’s belly. “But you always act like nothing scares you.”

“ _Act_ is the key word there. I get scared just as much as you do.” Morgause took a deep breath, felt the press of Morgana’s back against her abdomen, wanted to hold her there forever. It was all or nothing now. That’s how she had always known it would be with Morgana. “And I’m fucking scared witless that you’re going to walk out of this room right now and not look back.”

Morgana spun in her arms, leaned against the glass, putting a breath of space between them. “I mean that much to you? Sometimes I feel like I’m still this ten-year old tagging after her hero.”

“I’ve been mad for you since that weekend I got you pissed on tequila and you climbed into my bed. How many ways do you want me to say it?” Morgause asked softly, resisting the urge to lean in and lick away the last drops of rainwater from the smooth column of Morgana’s throat.

Morgana latched her arms around Morgause’s neck and smiled, a hesitant curving of her lips that slowly bloomed into a full-blown smirk. “A few more would be nice.”

“No one else understands my weird. Not like you do. How’s that?” 

Morgana’s forehead scrunched up as she considered it. “I understand your weird?”

“Every nuance and shade of it.”

“Huh.” She contemplated that for a minute. “I guess you get mine, too.”

At that, Morgause tipped forward and caught Morgana’s lips with her own, breathed in Morgana’s warm exhale. Morgana’s fingers spasmed against Morgause’s shoulders, and she swayed a little, slightly off-kilter. Something tight and scared unhitched inside her; heat was uncoiling in her belly, and Morgause drew away from Morgana’s mouth, stepped back and tugged her towards the bed.

“There are ninety-two positions in the lesbian kama sutra,” Morgause said matter-of-factually as she snaked her hands under Morgana’s blouse.

Morgana grinned. “So you’re telling me we have our work cut out for us.”

***

At seven thirty the next morning, Morgana’s phone erupted with a shrill ring. She rolled over and answered it with a groan.

“Oh, hi Gwen.” She shot up and her voice went tight.

Morgause pushed herself out of bed and headed to the shower, which turned out to be no larger than a coat closet, and capable of producing only tepid water.

When she emerged later, Morgana was laughing into the phone and sputtering something about buttermilk not being the same as butter and milk mixed together.

Morgause decided to forgo yesterday’s pants—they had left in a hurry without bringing a change of clothes—and pulled on her slightly rumpled skirt. She paced over to the bed to check her own phone and found two text messages from Nimueh: a photo message of The Lovers, and a second one of the Ace of Cups. She rolled her eyes and deleted them. She was fairly certain other people’s mothers did not lay cards for them every morning.

“Hold on, Merlin,” Morgana was giggling into the phone, “put Gwen back on.”

Morgana tapped Morgause’s shoulder and held her mobile out. “Gwen wants to speak with you,” she explained softly.

Morgause greeted Gwen brusquely as she took the phone from her.

“So we’ve decided that you . . . um you both can come back,” Gwen’s voice wavered, but she plowed on, speaking so quickly Morgause struggled to follow. “Because well, we like Morgana and we know how much she likes you so we want to give you the benefit of the doubt, and well, also because Merlin says that he’ll die if he has to watch East Enders without Morgana’s commentary, because Arthur’s snark is not nearly as good as Morgana’s.” 

That was obvious, wasn’t it? Nothing a Pendragon did could ever be nearly as perfect as Morgana’s attempt at the same thing.

Morgause listened to the rest of Gwen’s flustered speech. “But you have to promise not to snoop any more and take a blood oath, yes, Arthur, I said blood oath, that you will not tell your boss what you discovered about Arthur, because he will tell his father all these things in his own time, and it’s not your place . . . No Arthur, you can say that to her yourself, if you want. Um . . .” There was a long pause, “yes, well that’s it. And that you should come back because we _do_ like Morgana a lot, I just think everybody needed to cool down a little bit.” She took a deep breath, and tripped over the next words. “And we’d really prefer it if you two kept the sex down to a low rumble in the future. And also Merlin is making a batch of Morgana’s cinnamon scones for breakfast, which she says are your favourite.” 

“No one makes me swear blood oaths, Guinevere,” she bit out. She was prepared to continue giving this Guinevere woman a full piece of her mind, but she saw the way Morgana’s eyes were scrunching up, and so she exhaled and forced herself to smile. “But I can sincerely promise that I won’t tell Uther what I learned about his son,” she said as gently as possible. “He’s right that that’s his business and not mine.” Plus she didn’t need to use Arthur to get at Uther Pendragon. Her hole puncher would serve her just fine. “And I dare say Morgana is ready to go home.”

Guinevere did not respond to that, so for good measure, she added—with what she hoped was a conviction she didn’t quite feel—“I look forward to the scones.” 

“Oh, wonderful. I’ll put the coffee on,” Guinevere said brightly. 

They said their goodbyes and Morgause turned to Morgana, who had already put on her raincoat and stood by the door tapping her foot.

“Is Guinevere always that cheery first thing in the morning?” Morgause asked.

“You should see her on no sleep. The less she sleeps, the more she talks.” Morgana smiled and slung her arm around Morgause’s shoulder, angling in to kiss the side of her neck.

“So,” she murmured into Morgause’s skin, “did you devise new ways to put the fear of the Goddess into my flatmates while you were sleeping?”

“At least a hundred. Let’s get going.”


End file.
